Shot of Honesty
by StarsOfYaoi
Summary: *FrUKIta threesome* France, England and Italy get together to drink. And the morning after, England wakes up with no memories of the previous night and a nagging guilt...
1. Waking up…

**SOY:** I don't know why this threesome or this plot wanted to be written so much, but there you have it. A threesome _**three–shot**_ fic. The chapters will be kind of short, I'm sorry, but I hope you will still come to enjoy the fic!

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**Rating**: R for mentions of past sex

**Warnings:** threesome, mentions of sex, England. Romano. France.

**Pairings:** France/England/Italy, mentions of Spain/Romano.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

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**Shot of Honesty**

**Chapter 01: Waking up…**

The first thing England was aware of as his consciousness slowly resurfaced was warmth; his whole body was tired and warm, that sort of cosy, languid feeling of waking up after having done something tiring but satisfying.

For a while, he simply sighed, allowing his thoughts to wander, but the more he woke up, the stranger the warmth felt. As if something was supposed to click, yet it wasn't.

What had happened the previous night?

Blinking and finally opening his eyes, he realised that the room he was in was quite large, and was definitely not his own; the first thought was that he had crashed at somebody's house for the night, but that made him wonder again what he'd done.

He vaguely remembered being upset, and then meeting France. The French frog had been… equally upset, and moody, in his usual dramatic, melancholic way to be sad that always granted to England's nerves.

Somehow, instead of their banter, they had moved to the other usual thing they did together –drinking alcohol in a pub to drown away their sorrows.

Why had they started their drinking again?

Forcing his still fuzzy brain to recall everything was hard, so he allowed his eyes to travel around the room instead.

Football.

The thought hit him with the strength of a mallet; his team had lost the game. He'd been terribly depressed, seeing them not allowed to get further in the competition. The thought stung, and it hurt.

France had been also depressed, because his own team had acted horribly, too, and everybody was discussing and insulting them over and over. Laughing stock.

They had shared a drink for problems far bigger than those, but it was still a sore point for both. They hated losing, and they loved football.

England curled more into the warmth, absently holding closer what he had in his arms.

Then, right when his eyes fell on the mop of brown hair right in front of his eyes, he remembered something else.

Before they could even take the first sip, Italy had joined them, equally depressed about his own loss. He'd been overly sad and angered, eyes filled with resentment at the mean words everybody had for his team –the disappointment that the former champions of the world had lost so early in the tournament was a burning shame for him.

He'd joined them, sour and grumpy.

Then, England could remember nothing –just a blur of…

His eyes finally focused on the hair a few inches from his face, and froze.

Sleep vanished from his mind and he was suddenly completely alert.

There was a body in his arms. Limbs. A soft breath against his neck, the steady, slow heartbeat of a person into a deep sleep. Brown, soft–looking hair. Arms loosely wrapped around his midsection.

A strand of hair poking from one side and curling in the air.

Slowly, really slowly, he stared down at the person that was snuggled against his chest.

His worst nightmares were right in front of him.

There, completely naked and asleep and clutching at his –equally naked– body, was Italy.

England, once an Empire, retired fearless pirate, magic user, finally knew what true terror really felt.

How the hell had this happened?

Going from drinking to… this?

With Italy, of all Nations? They had never been that close –the Italian man was cute and silly, and always had nice words ready for everything (except England's food, of course), and England had sometimes allowed his thoughts to wander where they were not supposed to –he was a closet pervert, after all. Not that this was an excuse– but…

From that to _this_…

Had it been France, then it would have been understandable, common –many times they had ended sharing a bed after having shared a glass of alcohol, a different kind of battle and yet a battle nonetheless, but this was different.

France was one thing.

They were rivals, they loved spitting insults and jibes at each other, they liked to fight and dance one against the other, and they were used to bringing this one step further if need aroused.

What existed between himself and France was complex, but familiar. Usual. Expected.

But… not this.

Italy…

He couldn't believe this.

What had he _done_?

Guilt racked through him. He knew how imposing and forceful he became when drunk. France had complained more than once about his rough attitude in bed after one drink too many; had he forced Italy into this?

He would have never wanted to do this to him. Italy was not naïve despite his age –and one tended to forget that the Italian nation was just as old as England himself was– but he certainly was one of the brightest, most innocent nations still around.

Candidly admitting of having never thought about doing anything more than flirting with girls for fun, not even interested in anything more than just that, not even simple romance, nor sex, completely uncaring of France's advances, of Spain's attempts at badtouching, of Prussia's date requests…

It was not a secret –no matter how embarrassing it was to admit that to oneself– that the Italian was also a virgin, and had been so by his own choice.

At least until now.

England felt a wave of shame wash over him, taking his breath away; he was close to panicking.

How could he remedy to something like that?

Was there even a way to?

What would he do once Italy was awake? Just look into his eyes and beg his forgiveness? And what would Italy do? Cry? Beg him not to hurt him again?

Oh, god, what if England had hurt him?

Clenching his jaw and feeling his teeth hurt with the strength he was gritting them, England shifted slowly in bed, grabbing the blanket with one hand and moving it up a bit; he was expecting to see anything –semen, blood, the sign of his abuse on Italy's naked body underneath the covers– but a hand moved onto his own, stopping him.

And scaring him shitless.

He almost jumped out of bed, but an arm that also was around his waist kept him completely still.

"Shhh… do you want to wake him up, _mon cher_?" a deep voice laced with amusement breathed into his ear.

Twisting his neck so hard it almost cracked, England looked behind and found himself with France's face inches away from his own.

"Fran–"

The Frenchman's blue eyes turned glacial at England's high–pitched tone, and he fell into silence, feeling Italy shift into his arms; he froze, panic filling him again, but the Italian simply snuggled more against his chest, sighing happily and still asleep.

England refused to allow his muscles to relax, looking at France again.

By what he could see from his uncomfortable position, France was just as naked as he and Italy were.

The implications of that sent even more dread dancing with his guilt and his panic.

"Francis… what the hell did we do?"

The wall was too far away to be able to slam his head on it, and he inwardly cursed.

"I think the answer is rather simple, _Angleterre_," France's voice was dripping sarcasm, but England realised that if he wanted to hit him, he'd have to let go of Italy's shoulders, and he didn't want to do that.

What if Italy woke up?

Besides, a part of him was still feeling the warmth, and sleeping so close to another human being was definitely soothing to him –so used to sleeping alone in a cold, empty bed, and even when waking up after one of his drunken nights, things had never been like that.

"W–what are we going to do?" he screeched. "What happened?"

"Don't you really remember?" more sceptical than anything, France leaned forwards a bit, staring at England in the eyes. "You always do, at least, enough to be satisfied".

England didn't really want to remember –after the many drinks, everything was a blur of confusion, but the fear of what could have happened, of the things he'd done to Italy…

He did not want to confront these memories.

Yet, his brain was working against him.

What he remembered was…

Brown eyes staring mournfully at a glass of wine… France chuckling humourlessly… England's hands playfully tugging at Italy's curl, and then–

Blurred memories –clothes flying everywhere… hands on his body, France's lips on his neck, his own hands coaxing Italy forth and down on the mattress…

'_No!'_

Eyes wide, England stopped the confused river of images, shivering and biting down on his lower lip, trying to keep calm. He couldn't remember if Italy had been entirely consentient, but how could he have been? He'd surely been drunk, just like him and France…

And France, of all people! He knew he could take advantage of a drunken England, just like the Englishman knew that he could do the same to France; it was their unspoken agreement.

But Italy… Italy had been untouched for centuries. That had to be for a reason. He'd surely gone to drink out with Nations other times, and yet… the dreadful thing had only happened when going out drinking with England for the first time.

England had standards. Morals, too. they could be strange, and sometimes twisted –after all, no sane person could manage to work out with having been a pirate, an Empire, a punk and a wild child and being now a gentleman in everything and anything– but he had always prided himself to have never done anything without consent of the other party.

And now… and now…

France held him tight against his chest, shocking England by gently nipping at his collarbone, shaking him out of his thoughts.

England fought against the urge to elbow him in the stomach.

"S–stop! The hell are you doing? Don't you have a minimum of decorum?"

"We're still in bed together, Arthur," and oh, how lewd his name sounded on those French lips. "You're still holding Feli's deliciously spent body in your arms, too. So don't deny me this, at least".

"I–it's not the same, damn it! I… him… I would have never… and _you_!" rage suddenly filled all his veins. "He considers you his big brother, right? And you allowed me to do that… to him… to ra–"

France's lips gently pressed on his own. England spluttered, livid with rage, and met an equally enraged pair of blue eyes.

The blond Frenchman hissed in displeasure, "don't you _dare_ say that word".

"But that was exactly what happened, Francis! We were all drunk, but you've got more control than that! Why didn't you stop me? I can't even… oh, God, I don't even remember what I did, and yet… _shit_…"

France bit back the retort he wanted to say, and took a deep, calming breath.

"What we did was completely consensual. On all parts" he assured, voice cold and low. "He liked it. We made sure he did" he added, lips twitching upwards in barely repressed satisfaction. "Many times, actually".

England's cheeks turned crimson at the rude words. His lecherous mind flashed with images again, and he groaned, feeling himself growing hard despite himself.

His own reaction filled him with shame.

There was something erotic with knowing he (and France, but England was trying to forget about him) had been the one to claim something so precious and protected, even if he didn't remember about doing it (nor did he want to).

That was the part of England that he hadn't been able to suppress, the Empire in him, the pirate in him.

But the other part of him was ashamed and disgusted, especially by what he was thinking.

"How can you say that… you… I…" he had to leave.

He couldn't talk in this situation, not with Italy still in his arms, definitely not with France pressed flush against his back, tickling his shoulder with that stupid stub of a beard…

France seemed to understand, because he chuckled lowly and finally shifted away from him. England felt the bed creak, then the French Nation was standing up. He refused to turn around and look at him, knowing that was exactly what France was hoping for.

"Come on, let's get some breakfast ready for when he wakes up," he leered. "Not that I don't find this picture of you two arousing, so if you want to stay like this some more…"

"How the hell am I supposed to move, you git!"

"Little Feli is tired enough not to wake up," was the answer he got.

Anger boiled in England's veins again, but he calmed down and gently shifted backwards. Italy's arms fell limp on the mattress and he scrunched up his face, but otherwise didn't show any indication that he was going to wake up, murmuring something under his breath that England, despite the closeness, did not hear.

Still moving slowly, he managed to get off the bed, and he finally breathed out in relief, hands clenched into fists.

It was then that he finally recognised France's room around him. They always ended up at his house because it was the closest one.

On the bed, Italy's sleeping form looked even smaller than usual, pale against France's dark sheets.

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"You fucking bastard! Git! Bloody hell, what did we do?"

"Arthur… _mon dieu_, will you please sit down?"

The two Nations had closed the door of France's bedroom and had moved to the kitchen, where France had prepared some strong coffee for both, and some fresh croissants for when the Italian nation would join them.

England couldn't stay still, shifting on his seat then standing up and pacing around, only to sit back down with a grimace.

"How can I stay calm? It's all easy for you, you're the lecherous one, you are the one who keeps molesting people, it's obvious you would not think much about this… but I can't! What I've done… oh, bloody hell. Feliciano… how could I use him like that?"

"Arthur! Stop saying idiocies! You're underestimating Feli if you think he would allow you to take advantage of him without doing anything…" rolling his eyes, France sipped his coffee, a sneer on his lips. "Don't you think he wanted that, too?"

"We were all drunk! I can't think straight when I'm drunk, and you're just the same, and probably he is, too… could there be a worst way to lose your virginity to someone?"

Hiding his face in his hands, England slumped onto the table.

"You're thinking too hard over this. If you could just straighten up and concentrate, you'd remember what has happened, and–"

"And what? I will remember what I've done to him? What we've done? Did I leave marks on him? Did you? What will happen if I remember? Will the problems disappear, then? Or the fact that I've fucked that poor boy, probably raw?"

"Oh, _Angleterre_, don't be an idiot! I would never allow anyone to 'fuck', as you put it, with my _cher_ little brother. And definitely not 'raw', either," France shook his head. "It seems impossible you don't remember what happened at all, as you usually never forget even the smallest details…"

"Shut up! Do you find all of this funny? Is it a joke to you? Ah, I know you love to see me so low, but… that is Feliciano! It's not something that can be remedied with just begging for forgiveness!"

France finally lost his smug smirk and calmed down, realising that England's panic was definitely authentic.

"You're really… this really bothers you, Arthur".

"O–of course! You fucking frog!" England's hands were trembling. He wanted alcohol, but everything had happened because of it in the end, right?

He'd been drinking too much, and had brought Italy down with him.

"Arthur… what do you remember of yesterday?" it was only France's serious tone that convinced England to actually think back. He was staring at him, chin on his hand, blue eyes narrowed, and England shivered at the sight, looking away before the other could take advantage of that.

There were times when England wondered if fighting and having drunken sex was even enough, but he never allowed those thoughts to last enough.

What did he remember from the previous night?

England couldn't deny something had happened, not if he wanted to take responsibility for what he'd done, but…

More than anything, he wanted to refuse remembering, because part of him wanted to know, and that part was not guilty in the least.

"Come on, Arthur," France poked at his arm with a finger.

"I…"

Rubbing his forehead with his fingers, England forced himself to remember.

Yes, they had been drinking together. Italy had been moping on how football was one of the very few things everybody agreed his Nation was good for, how everything else he did was never enough, and that now… now they had lost so early, and all he got was insults and laughter.

France had been gloomily sipping his wine, depressed because he had barely passed the qualifications, and he'd showed just how badly he could lose, despite all the expectations his people had for the team.

England had grunted, agreeing wholeheartedly with both, downing glass after glass of whisky.

It hadn't been that happy grouping at all.

As far as it concerned him, England had always been a chatty drunkard; he became touchy and open, and he could vaguely remembered patting Italy on the back, feeling sad for the poor moping Italian.

Then… he didn't remember… there were various holes in his memory, fuzzy and empty and… they had talked, probably being gloomy together, the three of them, and then…

Somehow… Italy had smiled.

England couldn't for the life of him remember why, or what the cause for that smile had been, but he'd been a sight to behold –cheeks flushed with the wine he'd been sipping, tears in his eyes, Italy had smiled at him.

A beautiful smile.

After that, England's already confusing memories turned into…

Naked skin pressed against naked skin, lips and tongues dancing together, France's arms around his waist, hands slipping lower as he leaned forwards, dragging Italy closer, holding him…

"Damn it…" he hissed, shaking himself out of those thoughts.

No, he didn't want to remember more than that.

He knew enough.

"How will I explain that to him? I didn't mean to have my way with him… we were all drunk… how can I… and you… how can _you_ be this calm?"

France looked at him, eyes narrowed. "It might be a problem, indeed," he mused, but his tone of voice had England wonder if he wasn't referring to something else instead.

"Are you going to deny any responsibility?" he grunted, angered and upset.

He had thought France wasn't like that –that despite their sort of agreement, and his lecherous ways, he would realise when he'd done something inexcusable.

And yet…

"_Mais non_!" at least France had the decency to look offended. "But you won't be able to make any progress unless you remember exactly everything that has happened yesterday, Arthur. And I don't mean us three making–"

"Oh, shut your trap. It's not like it will help… It will do nothing good to that poor lad!"

"Stop assuming things before knowing all the details, _Angleterre_…"

"What? How do you think I feel? Why are you so calm? It will be me having to explain Feliciano that all that happened was _wrong_, that I didn't mean anything I did and said! I was drunk! I didn't want anything of that! It was all a huge mistake! I'm… so… disgusted…"

So lost in his yelling, England didn't notice the small gasp on the other side of the door, and with France once again trying to calm him down, glaring at him as if he couldn't really _get it_, the following fight drowned out all the noise outside the room.

When France finally managed to calm the Englishman down, more than ten minutes of ranting later (the longest in his life, if he had to be honest), he was close to yelling himself.

How could he make that damn English Nation _understand_?

Yet, if he still could not remember anything except short flashes, the first thing they had to do was wake up Italy and have England shut up; the Italian Nation would surely be better at soothing England's overwhelming reactions.

Thinking about his little Italy made France smile fondly. He had hoped for things to evolve down a similar path for years to come, but he would never have expected them to end so perfectly. Now, if only England stopped being a dramatic idiot, then maybe…

"Francis".

The Frenchman blinked and shook himself out of his trance to stare at England, who on his own was unable to look away from the bedroom.

France shifted to look inside, too.

The bed was empty.

"Feli?" cautiously entering in the room, France looked around.

Maybe he'd been awoken by their yelling? Was he in the bathroom?

"Feli…? We need to talk!"

England remained frozen on the spot, holding the frame of the door with both of his hands, knuckles white.

He didn't want to face Italy, but at the same time, he had to. All his fault…

"Arthur, Feliciano's clothes are not here".

England blinked and stepped into the room, looking around.

When he and France had left the room, they had both grabbed their pants from the floor, and he remembered seeing Italy's shirt and pants there as well.

Now, he could only see his shirt close to the bed, and France's shirt on the nearby chair.

France was right. Where were Italy's clothes?

"He's… did he run away?" filled with dread, England held tightly onto the headboard, hiding his face in one hand.

"_Ce n'est pas possible_…" France murmured, face showing uncertainty.

After all, he knew that Italy would never run away like this, not if…

Was it possible that he didn't remember anything from the previous night, either? But he was sure that the Italian had a good hold on his liquor… then what did this mean?

"Oh, God… Feliciano…" England slumped down on the bed, overwhelmed by self disgust once again.

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**SOY:** there you have, the first chapter. Please drop me a comment to let me know if you liked! Next chapter will be up soon, I promise :D

_mon cher (French)_ – my dear

_Angleterre (French)_ – England

_mon dieu (French)_ – My god

_mais non (French)_ – of course not (slang)

_Ce n'est pas possible_ (French) – this is not possible


	2. Forcing memories out

**SOY:** second chapter. It makes me happy to see such a positive response! I just love these three idiots together, I swear. :P

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**Rating**: R for mentions of past sex

**Warnings:** threesome, mentions of sex, England. Romano. France.

**Pairings:** France/England/Italy, mentions of Spain/Romano.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

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**Shot of Honesty**

**Chapter 02: Forcing memories out**

"_Bonjour_, Alfred! _Bonjour_, Matthew," France strolled into the room with a bright smile, nodding at the two twins sitting at the table.

Alfred waved at him, too busy munching on a burger to be able to speak, and Canada smiled hesitantly at his once–caretaker, flustered that someone was taking notice of him.

France quickly lost interest on the two and scanned the room; only a few nations were already there for their usual meeting, but his eyes lit up once he realised Spain was already there, and that little Romano was with him.

With a last glance towards the door, expecting to see England coming in at anytime now, France strolled over to his best friend, sitting at his right side and smiling at him; Spain turned his attention from a very flustered Romano to France, and beamed up at him.

"_Bonjour_, Antonio~" France purred, patting his shoulder. "Congratulations on your win, it was an amazing game".

Because yeah, France was not one to hold contempt towards his friend. The last game of the season between Holland and Spain had been great, and Spain definitely deserved the first place. Not that France was there for that, though.

"_Gracias_ Francis!" Spain smiled brightly up at him, fingers intertwined with those of Romano, who was desperately trying to tug his hand away. "We watched it together, me and _mi_ Romanito~"

"I bet you got your… reward afterwards, hmm?" France leered, wiggling his eyebrows at his friend.

Spain laughed loudly, nodding happily without any trace of shame, and Romano's free fist collided with the back of his head, sending Spain face–flat on the table.

"Sh–shup up, you bastard! T–the hell are you saying?"

"But Lovi~"

"I see… and where is little Feli?" France continued, easily ignoring the usual antics of the couple and looking around. He prided himself of being definitely smooth with his questions.

"That stupid little brother is late for the meeting again," Romano muttered, looking to the side. "He keeps painting and painting all day". He was clearly upset, and Spain gently tapped his shoulder, attempting to comfort him.

France frowned. "Isn't that a good thing?"

The older of the Italies stared at him as if France had just said he'd like to eat England's cooking. "Of course not, French bastard! Feli paints so much only when he's upset… he barely comes out from that room to eat or sleep".

"Oh, I see…"

"I wonder what the fuck is wrong with him… stupid brother…" but South Italy was clearly worried.

France's eyes turned to the door, watching England stomp in; the Englishman stared up at him, then looked away hurriedly, face barely hiding his distaste. The sight made France look down, shaking his head.

Over a week had passed since the night the three of them had spent together, and ever since then, France had been unable to get through England's guilt and anger. The English Nation had tried to make contact with Italy, but without receiving any answer, and France had tried going at his house, only to be left waiting on the entrance for hours.

The matches had been going on, culminating with Spain's victory against Holland's team, and France had hoped that in the world meeting after the last Football match, Italy would be present, and they would be able to talk.

He didn't know why Italy had run away, and the fact that he didn't know made him unsure.

Returning his attention to the Spaniard and his boyfriend, France tried to look nonchalant. "Ah, I've been missing my little Feli so much lately~ I wish to see him again~"

"Calm your frigging hormones, bastard! Feli will come for sure, he can't avoid a world meeting… _stronzo di un Francese_…"

Still muttering under his breath Romano returned his attention to kicking Spain away from him, and France sighed, standing up and moving towards England.

The Englishman grunted as he saw him getting closer, but didn't push him away, limiting himself to a growl.

"Stay away, Francis, it's a bad day," he warned.

France shrugged. With England, most of the days were bad ones… especially the last eight.

"Feli is going to be there, today," he stated. He watched as England's eye twitched, his hands clenching into fists. "Are we going to–"

"_We_ are doing nothing," England hurried to his seat, and France followed him.

Their antics were so usual for the rest of the nations already present that none of them spared any attention to the two, though they were all hoping they would not fight anytime soon –the meeting was about to start…

"You can't keep on avoiding the subject, Arthur–"

"_He_ is avoiding it. It's clear what he thinks… he hates me. He's disgusted. Afraid".

"Arthur…"

"Do you want to talk about _that_ with everybody around, Francis?" England sneered, pointing at the room that was filling up with nations. "Make it even more embarrassing not just for me, but for Feliciano, too?"

France looked around and finally sat down, brushing one hand through his hair.

He had to calm down. England was a stubborn idiot, but for once, he was right. He could not disrupt the meeting about these things. They'd have to corner Italy, so he could finally ask what was wrong, and why did he run away… but after the meeting.

The door of the room opened again, and France and England turned around at the same time, staring as Italy entered at Germany's side.

The German Nation straightened his tie and looked around, nodding to himself in satisfaction, then motioned for Italy to go sit down, and was ignored as the Italian man seemed to be glued at his side.

France frowned. At his side, England also frowned.

Italy was chatting happily with Germany, but was definitely not in the right shape to be participating to a meeting –his clothes were worn out and covered with paint, from his sleeves to his pants, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

One of his hands kept clutching at Germany's sleeve, and his eyes flickered towards England before returning to the blond man at his side, refusing to look away.

England felt the same pang of guilt that had been at his side for the last week and a half strike his heart again.

It was true –Italy was afraid of him. or maybe he hated him. Probably both.

"Ve~ Ludwig, Ludwig, can I paint you after the meeting?"

"Feliciano, go sit down! It is bad enough you are dressed like that for a formal meeting!" Germany grunted, pointing at the chair at Romano's other side.

"Feliciano! _Come cazzo sei vestito_?" South Italy stood up in rage. "Didn't I tell you to change this morning?"

"Ve~ I forgot, brother… sorry Ludwig…"

Smiling sheepishly, Italy made his way around the table, passing close to France and England without even looking at them, and sat down next to his brother; it was clear Romano was worried, as he didn't mention his clothes anymore, nor his tired appearance.

After a moment, the two started conversing in Italian, though it was mostly Romano talking, and Italy playing with the documents in front of him.

Germany rolled his eyes and sat on his own chair at France's side, shaking his head. "Let's just start this meeting, please" he ordered. "Alfred, if you want…"

Scrambling up from his chair, thumping on his chest to swallow the last bites of his third burger, America smiled brightly and slurped down his coke. "Hahaha~ of course! I will be the one to commence!"

"I can't accept this!"

With a sudden decision, France stood up, straightening up his best acting. Everybody turned to stare at him.

Pressing one hand dramatically against his chest, he turned to look to the side, pointing his other hand at Italy.

"I can't bear to look at that hideous attire a second longer! It hurts my eyes… my poor _petit_ Feli, wearing such horrid clothes… _non, non_! I won't allow it!"

Ignoring Italy's clearly panicked stare, he stomped over to him and grabbed his arm. His fingers tightened their hold on his wrist, and France stared deep into the other Nation's eyes, continuing his acting as he pulled him away from the table and his brother.

"Fortunately for you, _mon petit_, I have a change of clothes ready within this same building… I always am organized for this stuff, of course… I'll bring Feli back dressed like a normal, sane Nation, otherwise I won't be able to follow a single point of the meeting!"

Without allowing any reply, the flabbergasted Nations staring at him in shock –though not surprised, as they were also used to such a quirky attitude– he tugged Italy outside of the meeting room.

If things went the way he hoped they would, then…

Shaking himself out of his stupor, England stood up, flushed and furious.

He knew what France was doing, and surely he would not allow that French pervert to do anything to Italy without him present –who knew how Italy felt? Who knew how he would react to the two that had…

"Francis! I'm coming with you! I won't let you do anything perverted to him!"

Flushing more at his own words, knowing that b_**he**__/b_'d been the one doing the worst, he ran to the door, grimacing, and exited the room as well.

The corridor was completely silent, opposite to the soft chatters and buzzing that had been the constant background of the meeting room, and England faltered in his steps, finding himself facing France and a panicked Italy, who refused to look up at the French Nation and was still trying to tug his arm away.

"Ah… Felic–"

"We should move somewhere else to talk," France took control of the situation again, and moved down the corridor, still pulling Italy with him.

England followed a few steps behind, watching Italy stumble to keep up with France's pace, and feeling his heart tightening into his chest.

"Ve~ let me go…" Italy whined softly when France pushed him into a room, keeping the door open for England to get in, then closed it behind his back, locking it quickly and finally letting go of Italy's wrist.

The Italian nation glanced around him, trembling a bit, but the room was just another, smaller, meeting area, with a round table and one chalkboard on the opposite wall. There was no way to get out other than the locked door in front of which France was staying.

Accepting defeat, Italy slumped down on the nearest chair, refusing to look at the two.

"Feli… what is the matter?" kneeling at the other Nation's side, France gently pulled Italy's chin up with one hand, caressing his cheek. "I… we were worried… you ran away in the morning, and you didn't answer Arthur's calls, nor did you let me in the house…"

Shaking his head, Italy curled more upon himself, shying away from France's touch. "T–there is… nothing to say, ve~"

England tried to take a deep breath, but his heart was thumping wildly in his chest. It was clear, Italy was afraid of them. Of him. of France.

"Feli… please, we want to talk," the Frenchman tried again, biting his lower lip. "We–"

"Ve~" shifting away from France, Italy still refused to stare at them. "The meeting…"

"The bloody meeting can wait!" England exploded.

His outburst made Italy jump up from his chair and slump down on the ground, sniffling. "Ve~ don't hurt me! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Shit… Feliciano… I'm sorry…" rubbing the bridge of his nose, England tried to calm down.

He felt like shit. He was angry, he was desperate –he wanted Italy to understand, to listen to them, but at the same time, he wanted to let him run away, because facing him meant facing what he'd done. "I didn't mean to yell, I…"

Italy was still sobbing, and the sound was heart wrenching. "W–what do you want now?" he cried out, slumping back on the seat and looking at the floor.

France looked up at him with a poignant stare, and England panicked.

This was it. He had to sort things out on his own, now.

He'd spent over a week trying to think the best way to talk with Italy, explain him that he was terribly sorry, that he hadn't meant to hurt him, that what had happened was definitely not something he'd wanted, that–

"Feliciano…" he didn't know how to start. "I…"

"You don't need to say anything, Arthur… ve~"

Finally looking up at them, eyes filled with tears, Italy shook his head. "I h–heard you speaking _then_. I know what you said".

England and France blinked in surprise, then their eyes widened.

In the kitchen, the morning after…

"Ah! Feliciano, I… I hadn't meant to be brutal… I…" trying to recall what exactly he had said, England couldn't really remember the exact words.

He'd been way more panicked then, he wasn't sure what things he'd said. Something about his shame at what he'd done, something about…

"It was clear enough, Arthur.. you were _drunk_, it was a _mistake_… it was _wrong_–" Italy's voice trembled as he continued, his hands clasped together in his lap, fingers white, "it _disgusted_ you…"

England felt bile rush up to his mouth, and chocked on it. France tried to reach out, but Italy looked back down at his hands, refusing the touch.

"I… I didn't mean that–" England felt his tone waver.

"Why are you trying t–to humiliate me now?" Italy sobbed, shaking his head. "I had thought… you had liked… I had thought…"

Head spinning, England tried to make sense to what Italy was asking him.

He didn't want to humiliate him. he hadn't meant to –why was everything moving down the wrong path? Facing Italy like this… it was just as wrong as what he'd done that night.

"Feliciano, I didn't mean to scare you… or hurt you… what I did was… disgusting, not you".

"Oh, _pour l'amour de_… Feli is talking about the _sex_, Arthur!" France slammed his hand against the table.

England's cheeks coloured crimson. "A–ah…"

What could he reply to that? Italy had thought…

"How could I… I mean, I can't like what I've done… that is… oh, bloody hell… what I mean is… of course I didn't like it… how could I have liked doing that…"

Italy's frame was trembling again, tears rolling down his cheeks, and England stopped. It was too complicated.

Just the few memories he had of that night were enough for England to know that it was a lie, he'd _liked_ doing it –with both Italy and France, he'd…

But he couldn't like that, at the same time! It was rape! Drunken actions he _regretted_!

It was disgusting… having liked that.

But he had to make it up somehow. He _had_ to.

"Feliciano… I was drunk. I barely remember anything from that night… whatever I did… I regret hurting you. I stole something important, and for that, I–"

Italy blinked, tears stopping abruptly as he stared at England.

"W–what did you say…?"

England looked up, swallowing uneasily. "I regret hurting you. I regret having my way with you like that, even though… I don't…" ashamed, he stared at France, vaguely angered that the French frog was staring at him too, blue eyes narrowed. "I only remember flashes of it. N–nothing much. If I said anything to you… if I hurt you… I…"

"Ve~"

England was startled out of his self–deprecation when one of Italy's hands softly pressed over his own. Shocked at the gesture, England stared up, green eyes wide.

How could Italy… touch him after… after–

"You don't remember, ve…?" Italy wiped away his tears and looked up at France. "Francis…?"

France gently shook his head, and offered his hand to Italy again. This time, the Italian nation took it, his demeanour changed completely; returning his gaze to England, Italy smiled a bit, though it wasn't a bright smile like his usual ones.

It was small, and a bit bitter, a bit pained, but a smile.

How could he smile like this? How could he even look at England after…

"Ve~ it's ok, Arthur…" his fingers rubbed England's hand, almost comfortingly. "Please, don't hurt yourself like this…"

The English Nation didn't understand anymore.

Why was Italy suddenly calmer? Why was he…

"It changes nothing!" he yelled, shaking his hand out of Italy's grip. "I hurt you! How can you be so understanding?"

Italy blinked, but the small smile was still on his lips. "Well… I…" he looked to the side, staring at France for a moment, almost as if asking for support, then returned his attention to England. "I might not… have wished my… first time to be… under control of… alcohol," he shrugged, embarrassed and flushed, and England felt ashamed when he realised that he found the sight cute. "But… but what happened… what you two did… it wasn't…"

France's grip on his hand tightened, and Italy nodded.

"Arthur, if you can, please try to remember what happened, ok? When you remember what you told me…" he flushed again "then we can talk again, ok, ve~?"

Italy took a deep, calming breath. He was still smiling sadly, but he didn't look as tired and depressed anymore. Something had changed, and England was left baffled at this, unable to understand what had changed.

What had happened back then?

'_Did I perhaps tell something to Feliciano that made it ok for him to do what we…'_

"I'm sorry if Arthur here is such a stubborn idiot," France stated, smiling and holding Italy in his arms. "For a moment I had thought you, too, couldn't remember…"

"Ve~" Italy snuggled into the French Nation's arms, allowing him to wipe the last of his tears away, nudging at the paint on his clothes. "I was… upset because… his words… I thought…"

"No, Arthur is quite… hmmm, honest when he's drunk," France chuckled, clearly amused. "He thinks clearer when alcohol thinks for him".

England felt like hitting him. Why did it feel like he was left out of a private joke that regarded him? "The hell are you talking about?"

Italy glanced at him, the same smile, a bit sad but warm at the same time, and shook his head slowly.

"Let's go back to the meeting, ve~"

"What? But you need to change, first," patting Italy's head affectionately, France tugged him towards the door, unlocking it again. "I was not joking when I said I had better clothes for you…"

"Wait, wait a moment–" England moved towards them, still confused.

"I mean it, Arthur," Italy replied. "If you can remember, you will understand. I will wait. Please do remember, ok?"

Leaving England in the room, France led Italy down the corridor again, one hand still pressed on the other's shoulder, more to hold him up this time. The moment they turned around the corner, the Frenchman stopped and looked down into the troubled Italian man's eyes.

"How are you feeling, Feli?"

Italy pressed one hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking a bit. His smile was hesitant now, trembling, his fatigue showing even more.

"R–relieved, I guess… ve~"

With a sigh, Italy leaned against France's chest, nuzzling against it as he felt the older Nation's arms wrap around him, warm and comforting.

"Why didn't you contact me, Feli?"

"His words hurt, Francis… after… after… to hear that… I really thought…" sniffling, Italy closed his eyes again. "It hurt. I painted and painted, but his words still hurt, even after what he said before, to hear that the morning after… it wasn't easy. It was so painful".

France gently massaged Italy's scalp, humming softly.

"I told you, Feli, that Arthur gets truly honest when he drinks too much. He can deny himself things when he's sober, but he has no qualms in admitting what he wants when he has had enough alcohol through his veins".

"Ve~" Italy shuffled a bit, then pulled away from the other again, sighing. "What if… what if he doesn't remember?"

"Well…" France frowned. England was just as stubborn as a mule, but surely seeing that he had not hurt Italy would help him try to solve this, too. "I am sure he will. After all, his biggest fear was that you'd be afraid of him, or hate him. but you realised what happened, so that should be enough, for now".

Leaning forwards, he caught Italy's lips into a kiss.

"Ve~ thank you, Francis…"

With a chuckle, France opened a metal cupboard at the end of the corridor, and retrieved a suit.

"Ve~? Why do you have clothes here?"

"It's a secret, _mon cher_ Feli… now dress up, or we'll be late".

…–…–…–…–…–…

The remaining of the meeting, England couldn't take his eyes away from Italy, every once in a while shifting to look at France, who was humming happily and pretending to take notes.

He really tried to pay attention to what the other Nations were saying –this was an important meeting, there were many things to talk about– but he just couldn't.

Italy looked… the same as always.

He chatted with his brother and with Spain, he waved at Greece on the other end of the table, offering him some food since he looked thinner than usual, then he even started a chat with Egypt.

He couldn't understand, yet he felt the weight of Italy's request on him.

Remember.

Italy wanted him to remember? Why?

Was Italy lying? Was he just hiding everything?

… was it an elaborate prank played on him by France?

But no, because what he could remember was pretty real.

The feeling of France's body pressing against his back, of his familiar hands caressing his chest, moving lower in that pattern France knew he liked…

The new, exhilarating feeling of smooth skin belonging to Italy, his pliant body arching to meet his own, lips parted to gasp as England bit down on his nipples…

England shivered and shook himself out of his thoughts. This was definitely not the right place to think about it; he was a pervert, yes, but this… what good would it be to indulge in such thoughts?

But there again…

Italy hadn't said to remember that.

He'd said something about before… about something England supposedly told him.

Did he mean… before they had stumbled into France's house?

How had that happened, then? They were drinking in a pub, and then, in France's bed, limbs tangled together, naked…

America was standing up now for his turn to speak, but England ignored him.

Before that, they had been talking. Drinking and talking.

There was something…

Italy had smiled. He could remember it. He'd been teary, and sad, but… why had he smiled?

England frowned.

He wanted to remember.

That smile –Italy's smile… the smile he could only vaguely remember from that night… it was worth remembering. He wanted to know what had caused that smile, and if remembering would make him able to see it again.

Not because he wanted to, of course. But because of the guilt. Because he wanted to know.

Maybe he would understand why France seemed to think that what they had done was ok. Maybe he would understand why Italy was suddenly ok with it, too.

Remember…

"Arthur?"

England blinked and suddenly found himself staring right into France's face. Too close. Definitely too close.

"Bloody hell?"

"The meeting ended around five minutes ago…" with a superior smirk, France stood up and patted him on the head. "I wanted to warn you before you stay here when they shut the place up for the night".

Looking around, England realised, much to his shame, that most of the Nations were already standing up and leaving.

He'd missed the whole meeting, lost in thought.

France stared at him with a knowing face, then leered. "Hmmm… or are you kinkier than I first thought?"

Jumping up from his seat and away from the French frog, England growled and stomped towards the door, grunting at France. He didn't need his jokes. "Stay away from me, frog!"

"Arthur…" France sighed. he was easy to rile up, but he truly wished he could be less grouchy and more honest with himself.

"Francis…?"

Turning around, France opened his arms and waited for Italy to jump into them. The Italian nation did so, snuggling against his chest and sighing.

"I'm tired…" he murmured. "Will you hold me for a bit?"

Humming with a satisfied smile, France held the Italian nation close and gently massaged his shoulders; he clearly needed to rest for a bit.

"Want to come over to my house, little Feli?"

"I'm also hungry, ve~ will you cook for me?" looking up with his best puppy eyes, Italy tapped the older nation on the chest.

With a chuckle, France nodded. "If we're lucky, we might have Arthur join us soon enough".

"Ve~"

…–…–…–…–…–…

**SOY:** second chapter! I'm glad you like this fic so much! One more chapter to go, please stay tuned and drop me a review!

_Gracias (Spanish_) – thank you

Bonjour (French) – Good morning

_Stronzo di un Francese (Italian)_ – Fucking Frenchman…

_Come cazzo sei vestito? (Italian)_ – How the hell are you dressed?

_Pour l'amour de… (_French) – For the love of…


	3. Realising the Truth

**SOY:** that's the third and last chapter of this fic! Thanks to everybody who reviewed and read this fic, I love you tons! :D

…–…–…–…–…–…

**Rating**: R for mentions of past sex

**Warnings:** threesome, mentions of sex, England. Romano. France.

**Pairings:** France/England/Italy, mentions of Spain/Romano.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

…–…–…–…–…–…

**Shot of Honesty**

**Chapter 03: Realising the truth**

England sighed, and looked up at the sign of the pub with a frown.

For once, much to his surprise, he was not here to drink; he'd been searching for that one pub for over two hours, as his memories of that night were still fuzzy at the best, and it had been one of France's recommendations.

If England remembered correctly, they had a good brand of whiskey, though.

He pushed the door open –the motion caused a vague sensation of déjà vu, and he inwardly nodded, satisfied.

He was here to see if he could, by any chance, remember the hell had happened back then.

As soon as he was in the pub, he looked around. He remembered choosing a table somewhere on the left, and he nodded as he recognised the corner –there was a huge painting on the wall right in front of the seat that had been his, so he remembered it well enough.

Sitting down, he looked around.

Familiar as it was, he was not sure what…

"_Monsieur_? Do you want to order?"

England looked to the side, startled to see a waitress already there. He blinked, about to order a scotch, double malt, but bit down on his tongue and cleared his throat.

"A beer would be fine, thank you," he ordered instead.

With a beer he was sure not to get drunk –it was by far too light for him.

While he waited for his beer, England looked around again. The pub looked decent.

France had been sitting to his right that night, and he had ordered a bottle of the best French wine of the house, starting to drink it in little, slow sips –always the prick, France– moaning and moping about…

Well, not just football, but mostly about it.

French people didn't take the loss that well.

Scrunching up his face, deep in thought, England barely realised the waitress had placed his beer in front of him.

Italy had joined them around half a hour later. He'd said something about France recommending the place to him once, and had asked if he could join them.

France had been all for it, but England had been against it –Italy didn't seem like one he'd want as a drinking companion, but there again, the Italian team had also lost. They were all on the same boat.

And in fact, Italy hadn't been that bad of a drinking mate. Not at all.

He hadn't been loud or silly or as annoying as France. On the contrary, he'd been silent for the first hour, sipping at his own wine in silence, listening to England's rants (he'd been already ankles–deep in his alcohol) and France's recriminations.

Of course, after some prodding, he'd started to loosen up, and it was around that time that England's memories had started vacillating.

He was sure that part of him didn't want to remember… there was a huge gap between their talks and…

_gently lowering down on Italy's body, tongue flickering out to lick at the tip of his–_

… and the sex.

Shaking his head, England downed the entire glass of beer.

Even now, his heart was thumping fast at the memory. It was pleasant, alluring.

He remembered kissing France, with Italy looking at them with wide hungry eyes, observing how they had interacted, the way France had removed England's shirt, then unzipped his pants.

He remembered how France had leaned to the side, grasping Italy's neck and pulling him closer, away from his observing position and into the action, how Italy had gasped into the deep French kiss as England's hands moved into his shirt to caress the skin underneath…

They had been drunk, but not enough not to know what to do, and how to make it right.

It was absurd –more than eight days had passed, and England could still taste the ghostly reminder of Italy's flavour on his tongue… sweat compared to France's salty skin.

They had moved in synch, England slipping inside Italy with some strain, stretching him wider than he'd ever been as France worked to get into _him_, filling him–

Moving, sliding, skin slapping against skin, France's fingers intertwined with Italy's, their frames melting into one, England licking on Italy's collarbone as France kissed his spine…

Even in England's sober mind, something did not add up.

These were not memories of fucking, of having sex like he and France were used to.

There had been an added factor, and suddenly it had turned sensual, slower…

Was it just because it was Italy's first time?

It shouldn't have… if they were truly drunk, that shouldn't' have mattered. He knew how rough he got when drunk. The memories were definitely not how he'd thought it had been.

Slow, sweet –and somehow, more mind–blowing than ever before.

Why couldn't he remember? He always remembered his drunken times –which was why he was always so embarrassed of them afterwards, especially around America.

Was it just… was he afraid?

Was he rejecting something more than just having taken Italy? Or was that enough to make him refuse those memories?

'_I'm b__**not**__/b afraid! I was a great empire, and I was a pirate… I was afraid of nothing, so why would this scare me?'_

He had to remember. Face his guilt, face his actions towards Italy, and understand.

Talking. They were talking and moping, and Italy's face had been so sad, so depressed, sipping his wine, ordering more…

"_All they see in me is an idiot –silly and afraid of fighting, always running away, good for nothing but pizza and mafia and…"_

Italy's voice echoing through his head.

England frowned more.

Something was still evading him, something important…

"_Everybody always bitches at my cooking, and pokes fun of me because I 'have invisible friends' and that I'm all stuck–up and weird, and stupid Alfred too…"_

His own voice muttering against the other Nations –Gods, how embarrassing…

"_I don't think you're stuck up nor weird, though. I like you Arthur~"_

Cheeks flushing red, England snapped his fingers and ordered another beer.

Had Italy really said that? That he liked him?

"_You have tons of good writers and poets, and I admire your strength, too~ Arthur is really cool, even if he gets angry and sometimes scary, and even if his cooking isn't the best, his intentions always are… and… you're cool, I really like you!"_

Hiding his face into one hand, England tried to push the embarrassment away. Why was he getting worked up over such simple words? It wasn't like it was the first time someone said that to him…

Well, only that it was. Other than France, and the bastard only said it as a joke, especially during sex –_shitty frog eater_– nobody had told that to England ever. Maybe America when he was really, really little, but…

Italy was just another stupid nation, saying silly things, after all, nothing to get embarrassed about, he was England after all!

The glass of beer stopped midway to his lips as he froze.

Of course that was a lie. Italy wasn't stupid. He'd been lamenting exactly about that –of how everybody accused him of being stupid and silly… and England was thinking the same, too?

But it _was_ true…

"No, it isn't," he muttered in a low tone, looking down at his hands.

"_Nobody ever looks at me –they just see what they want to see, ve~ a stupid silly Nation always smiling, that nobody really wants except for his territories, and now not even because of them…"_

England's head was hurting, so he sipped some more beer to try and calm himself down.

"But I think you're nice, Feliciano…" he murmured. The words echoed through his brain like soothing balm, a stronger sense of déjà vu, as if he was just repeating an already orchestrated conversation. "Despising war isn't a weakness, and I know of your poets and your painters, your artists and your sculptors… being good at that is… just as good as being good at fighting, probably more. I wish I could have spared myself some of my cruellest battles in exchange for…"

He paused, hesitating. His heart was so beating so fast he feared it'd come out of his throat. His hands were trembling.

Things clicked inside him, like the precise sound of an old clock.

"… _in exchange for even one of your talents, that is… you're not useless, and I also admire you for your resolution not to fight… I like you too, Feliciano…"_

That was what he'd been afraid to remember. He'd admitted… loudly, that is, he'd finally admitted something…

Italy had been shocked at his words and then–

He had smiled.

It had been England's words that had made him smile that beautiful, bright smile… a thank you, happy because someone didn't consider him useless…

England felt his insides shift painfully.

Italy had smiled, and in that moment, England had realised that he'd found him beautiful –not just as a Nation, or because of his territories, but simply because it was him. A silly, cheerful nation that he realised he knew enough to know of all his good sides.

Ever since when had he been looking at Italy, really? To know that he was easily frightened, but he wasn't a dolt, that if someone insulted his family, he stood up to protect them. He knew how to hold a rifle or a gun, though he didn't like using them.

He knew that he worked so much better with a brush. That he cooked delicious meals in which he put his whole heart.

He knew that he really liked cats, and liked to sleep so much, but that he also loved to read, and compose and create.

It hadn't been a lie when he'd said it. He really liked Italy, and if he smiled like that, too…

He'd leaned forwards, one hand already brushing against Italy's cheek, dragging him close, feeling his heart flutter in his chest, the booze in his blood helping him, spurring him on, and behind him, he'd heard France stand up, moving closer to them…

Now England realised that France had been waiting for an opening for a long, long time, too.

That stupid frog had been right, after all. He was way more honest when drunk than he'd ever be when sober.

That was why he allowed France to screw him only after drinking so much, that was why he refused to even think about the frog in any way except as a rival all the time…

Well, not 'screw'. There was another word for it, but it was far too mushy for England's liking.

It fit better with the current situation, and his memories of holding and been held back, of Italy's eyes filled with tears as England and France showered him with love, at his hesitant kissing and licking and exploring of their bodies afterwards, of France kissing him, gently caressing his palm…

Thinking back at it, it was probably even sillier than it seemed to him.

Glancing down at his second glass of beer, England snorted.

He was quite the idiot, but at least now he knew what to do.

…–…–…–…–…–…

France hummed and stirred the pot on the stove, eyes trailing to the wall clock every now and then.

It was mid afternoon, but his meat wouldn't be ready for another hour or so. He had enough time to sprinkle it with a little more wine and stir it some more, and then cut the carrots to his liking before he'd have to check up on the dessert baking in the oven, too.

With a sigh, France checked the portions again. He was making just enough for three, and yet he had no way of knowing if England would join them later on.

Or ever, if at all.

Casting a long glance towards the open door that connected the sitting room with the kitchen, he observed Italy's frame on the sofa, his chest rising softly with every deep breath; he was deeply asleep, clearly tired.

France didn't mind –Italy needed to rest a bit, after so many days of continuous painting and not eating enough.

He wondered if Romano would bitch at him if he even knew, and decided not to venture too far. If push came to shove, he'd call Spain, and have him keep Romano away for some time.

Italy's face was relaxed in his sleep, hands curled on his chest and completely abandoned on the comfortable cushions of the couch, and France fought the urge to step to his side and kiss him –it wouldn't do to wake him up yet.

Not until the food was ready, at least.

With a smile, he returned to his cooking, allowing it to fully absorb his attention.

France moved through the kitchen like a pro, smiling as he went through these simple, enjoyable motions –cooking was more than just something he liked to do… it was an art. And he was a master of such art.

A soft click alerted him that the front door was being pushed open.

Blinking and allowing his heart to skip a beat, France did not turn around, simply waiting, hands getting busy with cutting slices of onion.

The door was closed softly again, and the floor creaked softly as someone moved inside; the sound stopped for a moment and France bit his lower lip, concentrating on his carrots, forcing himself not to turn around yet.

He was a man of patience, after all.

The footsteps came closer at a slow pace and then they stopped again; France could feel the other's presence inches away from him.

"Welcome back, Arthur," he stated. His voice was cordial yet carefully monotone, just in case the other still–

England pressed his forehead against France's back, sighing deeply; hesitantly, one inch at a time, he wrapped his arms around the other Nation's chest. His hands were trembling, but for once he did not mind if the other noticed it. In fact, the thought didn't bother him in the least.

"I…" a pause. "I… remember now".

France smiled, tapping his lips with the wooden spoon, and pressed his free hand on top of England's joined fingers on his chest.

"I'm glad you do, Arthur," he purred. "How much…?"

"All of it, Francis, all of it," England continued, clearing his throat. "I'm… fuck, I'm sorry it took me so long".

"Well, it has been _only_ eight days, _non_?"

"Stupid frog, you know exactly what I'm talking about here…" but he didn't raise his voice, contenting himself in making France turn around to face him.

The damn bastard was smirking in satisfaction.

England grabbed the neck of his shirt and pulled him down.

"I hate you," the Englishman murmured against France's lips.

"_Oui_, of course," with a breathless chuckle, the French nation pressed forwards for the kiss. "_Je t'aime aussi, Angleterre_…"

It was familiar –everything of it was familiar. The touch, the taste, the sensation of France's body pressed tightly against his own, his arms wound around his waist, pulling him even closer…

England liked that.

The entirety of the action, and its meaning. Now that he could understand it, he wanted more of it.

They fought –tongues pushing and battling against each other, sensual and exciting, a breathtaking kiss fought fiercely and valiantly until one of them succumbed, then fighting again for a gained revenge.

When they finally parted, panting and satisfied, lips bruised and red, eyes glazed over, France gently shifted England so that he could place a softer kiss on his closed eyes.

With a shudder, England leaned forwards to nibble at France's neck, making him moan appreciatively.

The two remained like that for some more time, breathing and simply holding each other, until France pushed the other Nation away from him, smiling.

"Come on, Arthur. Feli is waiting".

Fingers twitching in anticipation, England returned to the sitting room where Italy was, still deeply asleep.

Sitting on the couch at his side, he delicately pressed his fingers against the offered cheek, brushing it gently, coaxing him back to consciousness.

France kneeled at his side, gently pulling Italy up and against his own chest, just as the Italian nation opened his eyes, finding himself face to face with England.

"Ve~ Arthur?"

Heart thumping madly in his chest, cheeks flushed, England shifted on the sofa, moving over Italy and intertwining their fingers together, France's hand covering both of theirs.

He had barely enough time to appreciate another one of Italy's bright, joyous smiles that he was moving even closer, pressing his lips against Italy's ones, tongue slipping past them to take a taste again.

Italy gasped, tongue shyly meeting England's own, his other hand coming up to cup the Englishman's chin, as France from behind rubbed his stomach comfortingly.

Deepening the kiss, England groaned softly, eliciting a similar sound from the depths of Italy's throat; the Italian man felt both warm and pleasantly dizzy, being spooned between France and England and feeling their hearts thumping just as fast as his own was.

Italy could barely breath when England moved back to take short, quick gasps, and yet he was the one to move forwards, lips greedily opening to another kiss.

France chuckled and shook his head, ripping England away from Italy so that he, too, could take a taste.

It was going to be ok now, definitely.

Who could have guessed that losing at that frigging Football tournament could have been such a good medicine?

"Feliciano…" England moved one hand to his chest, massaging it through his clothes.

Italy smiled sheepishly when his stomach grumbled. "Ve~ but I'm still hungry…"

"Don't worry, I can give you a taste of something yummy, Feli~"

"Stop being such a pervert, fucking frog!"

"But we're together now, I'm allowed to ask one of my lovers to suck my–"

"D–don't say these things loudly!"

"Ve~?"

Italy pouted and looked over to the kitchen, from where the yummy smell of meat and carrots was coming, and sighed, listening to England and France bicker around him.

He hoped they would stop that, at least enough for him to eat… but in the meanwhile, he just snuggled more against France's chest, giggling at the many colourful insults that passed from one of his lovers to the other.

At least this was pretty normal.

…–…–…–…–…–…

**SOY:** So that was it. _How_ is it? was it pleasant to read? I hope you've liked it as much as I've enjoyed writing it, lol.

_Monsieur (French) – _Mister

_Je t'aime aussi (French)_ – I love you too.


End file.
